Fireworks in America [Osasuna] [Haikyuu]

Prologue

Mother used to tell him, "There lies a land far beyond our horizon, where fireworks dance like angels of the sky and each spark carries a man's dream of affluence down to the soft earth, and crumbles into dust."

The younger Osamu had never imagined the day his own two feet could take him somewhere as far as the horizon where the blue blanket of sea stretches to infinity - and even more. At most, he and his twin Atsumu would see their father off at Hyogo port near their home, watching the ship sailing afar until it was a mere dot under the sky, swallowed in the waves splashing against the shores. The twins only lingered around the little island where the port laid, playing kites, climbing trees, helping their mother, letting the day pass by, never stepping into the lands and waters that borders it. Nevertheless, they are content with the company they offer one another, and their mother too - all while hoping their father comes home again.

And that day, Mr. Miya was to be home.

Summer winds rattled through the old iron bell in an irregular and unharmonious melody, the damned, rust-coated cacophony ransacked of all spirit and ready to succumb into the forgotten past. Osamu cussed the bell the moment he was woken up by the jaded sound, from napping in his mother's lap and sheltering himself away from the grim heat of afternoon. She, per usual, was avidly reading while letting her son drool on her apron, gray eyes skimming words with ceaseless focus.

- Did ya wake up? - She said softly, focusing on the paper in her hands.

- Whaddya reading, ma? - He perched up, holding her arm, mumbling the words "Sa...Sapu..."Sappho. - She murmured and closed the book. Folks candidly judged her voice as offbeat and ice-cold, save those of her family who had grown so familiar with its ebb and flow. Osamu gaped at her, bewildered at her dulcet articulation.

Atsumu was sitting criss-cross next to him, struggling to write kanji on the bamboo cards, the hand with the brush shaking. Hiyori nudged her son, whispering into his ear with a playful grin:Go help your brother. He's not doing well.

Osamu pouted, shaking his head:

- Let 'im be. It's not my fault 'Sumu is baaaaaaaad. - He drew out the "bad" word, the worst one he had yet. Atsumu huffed, signaling a "I heard that" and raised a fist, before earning a glare from their mother and then cowering.

She chuckled, drumming her calloused fingers onto the book. Then she spoke:

- I've a friend in America who gave me this book. Do ya remember Miss Mari?

He nodded, eyes glinting in interest.

And she hugged him, murmuring her stories. Of a landscape celebrating New Year's gaiety, fireworks ablaze when the clock struck twelve. Of seagulls that had swooped down to admire the ethereal sparks of sunlight sunk into the ocean. Of women in silk dresses and grins daubed on the sanguine faces, maybe colored by the honey-brown eyes and rosebud lips of Miss Mari.Of maybe the fleeting curiosity that urged him to go see things for himself, though impossible.

- Why did ma leave her? - Osamu asked. - Do ya miss her, ma?